by Adam Mitzner
Aaron walks past the kiosk hawking Donald J. Trump’s signature clothing line to a booth marked CONCIERGE. He tells the white-gloved attendant that he’s here to see Nicolai Garkov.
“The private elevator is down the end of the hall,” the attendant says. He points to the back of the space. “Go through the doors, and you’ll see it.”
Through the door, the pink marble stops and is replaced by something much more industrial: a flat-weave, gray carpet. Two uniformed police officers and a man in a dark suit sit behind a metal detector.
“I’m here to see Nicolai Garkov,” Aaron says. “I believe he’s expecting me.”
The man in the suit picks up a clipboard. “What’s your name, please?” he asks.
“Aaron Littman.”
“Yup. You’re here. Mr. Garkov’s ten o’clock.”
Aaron grins at the thought. “Does he get many visitors?”
“You’d be surprised. The terms of his confinement are that he’s only allowed to see immediate family, doctors, and lawyers, but somehow at least two of every type seem to show up each day. Which category do you fit in, Mr. Littman?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Do you have any identification?” Aaron hands over his driver’s license but immediately knows from Clipboard Man’s frown that that’s not going to suffice. “Anything to indicate you’re a lawyer? A business card will do.”
Aaron reaches back into his wallet, wondering why a business card is satisfactory proof that he’s a lawyer, when anyone could have one printed up. Clipboard Man studies the card carefully, even though the only information on it is Aaron’s name and the firm’s name, address, and telephone number.
“Okay,” Clipboard Man finally says, looking back at Aaron. “Please remove your coat, your suit jacket, your shoes, your belt, the contents of your pockets, and anything metal. Also, you’re going to need to leave your phone, laptop, and anything with a camera in it.”
Aaron doesn’t have a laptop, but he dutifully hands over his phone for inspection. Then he places his belt, shoes, cuff links, and watch in the plastic bin and watches the accessories go through the X-ray machine.
After Aaron walks through the metal detector, the older of the two uniformed police officers says, “Please follow me, sir. I’ll accompany you to Mr. Garkov’s apartment.”
Inside the elevator, the cop uses a key, rather than pressing a button. The lights above the doors don’t go on until the fiftieth floor.
“I thought the Donald lives in the penthouse,” Aaron says.
“He does. Mr. Garkov has the four floors below that.”
Sure enough, the elevator doors open at the sixty-fifth floor. Aaron expects the cop to lead him out, but instead he gestures that Aaron should exit alone.
Two more police officers and another man in a dark suit await him. They sit at a desk with two computer monitors facing them. Even though Aaron doesn’t get a clear look at the screens, he sees enough to know that they are transmitting video from inside the apartment.
Just like downstairs, the man in the suit has a clipboard. “Identification, please,” he says.
Aaron mentally sighs and reaches back into his wallet. This time he pulls out his driver’s license and a business card. This clipboard man spends much less time looking at them than his lobby counterpart.
From over Aaron’s shoulder, one of the police officers says, “Please hold your arms out.” He traces over Aaron’s body with an electric wand, like they use at the airport. It rings at his belt, his cuff links, and his watch, but the cop doesn’t seem to care.
“Visitor,” he calls out while simultaneously knocking hard on the door with his fist. Without waiting for an answer, the cop opens the door and motions for Aaron to enter.
NICOLAI GARKOV IS APPROACHING seven feet in height, which makes him the tallest man Aaron’s ever encountered. Garkov’s hair is a straw-colored blond that can only be found on a Russian, and he has clear blue eyes that invoke Caribbean water.
If it weren’t for the view of midtown Manhattan, Garkov’s home could easily pass for a medieval castle. Tapestries cover the stone walls and all the fixtures are gilded.
Garkov is one of a growing breed in the financial world: Russian billionaires who made their fortunes in hazy ways and spend them ostentatiously. Latter-day Jay Gatsbys. The purported source of his billions is a hedge fund, although all that really means is that he has amassed a lot of money. Where the money came from, how he invested it, and where it went from there were likely known only to Garkov himself.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Littman,” Garkov says with only the subtlest accent.
“It didn’t sound like I had much of a choice,” Aaron replies coolly. “Here’s my first bit of advice for you, Mr. Garkov: blackmail is not the best way to earn the trust of someone you want to retain as your lawyer.”
“Ends and means, Mr. Littman. Ends and means. You’ve read The Prince, I assume?”
“Yes. And you’re not the first person in your situation to recite that line to me. But I have to tell you, I’ve never found it to be a particularly persuasive defense. I’m more of a categorical imperative kind of guy.”
Garkov smiles. “I’m going to enjoy working with you, Mr. Littman. I consider myself something of a student of political theory—it’s not every day someone invokes Immanuel Kant. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t get too enamored with me. I doubt very much that I’m going to stay long.”
“Then we should begin right away,” Garkov says.
He leads Aaron into the apartment. An enormous fireplace in the shape of a roaring lion is the focal point of the room, with a four-foot-square opening for the lion’s mouth, inside which a fire crackles. They sit on sofas positioned on opposite ends of the fireplace, staring at each other.
Aaron’s first impression is that Nicolai Garkov is every bit as intimidating as his reputation suggests. Ironically, it’s Garkov’s calmness that’s so disconcerting. It’s as if he could snap your neck without his heart rate changing.
“Aaron. May I call you Aaron? And please, you need to call me Nicolai. I think we’ve gotten off to such a good start because we chose not to underestimate each other. Please don’t deviate from that now. We both know why you’re here and that you are going to stay.”
Aaron looks to the ceiling. Garkov must understand what he’s thinking, because he says, “Not to worry. The surveillance is video-only when it’s a lawyer visit. Attorney-client privilege and all that. No one will know what we’re going to discuss, if that’s your concern.”
Aaron’s tempted to say that he has no concerns, but that would be exactly the type of underestimation Garkov warned him to avoid. Instead he says, “But you could be recording it yourself, for your own use later.”
Garkov nods, indicating that he understands the point. “Yes. Yes, I could. I could tell you that I’m not, but I appreciate that you’re not inclined to trust me. At least not just yet. So, allow me to prove it.” Garkov waits a beat. “I, Nikolai Garkov, am guilty of the crimes for which I’ve been accused, and of many crimes for which I haven’t. Specifically, I received one hundred million dollars from a Russian named . . . let’s do first names only, because we’re still getting to know each other . . . one hundred million dollars from a Russian named Yuri, and he is quite well-known in certain radical circles. In turn, I sent that money to a myriad of accounts that I control, and after considerable financial machinations, I arranged for those funds to wind up under the control of Arif Chedid.”
Aaron is well aware that if Garkov is recording this as leverage for later, he could erase his confession and then digitally manipulate whatever remained as he saw fit. Nevertheless, Garkov’s statement certainly evens the scales a bit, in that it ties him to the reputed mastermind of the Red Square bombing. Besides, Aaron isn’t in any position to dictate terms, and so, like it or not, t
hey are going to talk.
“Okay. Get to the point, Nicolai,” Aaron says.
“Of course,” Garkov says in an overly solicitous tone. “As I’m sure you’re by now aware, Judge Brian Mendelsohn has withdrawn from my case, and he has been replaced with Judge Faith Nichols.”
Garkov comes to a full stop. His only communication now is a sinister smile, which Aaron has the urge to smack off his face.
“And . . . what does that have to do with me?”
“You’re doing it again,” Garkov says. “One of the things I’ve read about you, Aaron, is that you’re quite the poker player. I was particularly intrigued by an interview you did a while back—I apologize, but I can’t remember the particular publication in which it appeared—but in it you said that being a first-class poker player requires similar skills as being a first-class lawyer. The ability to review facts dispassionately, adapt quickly to changing events, and find a path for success even when the odds are not in your favor.” Garkov’s smile vanishes, replaced with an icy stare. “Now, you’d be wise not to try to bluff me unless you think you can actually pull it off. And I think you and I both know that you can’t, because I have the winning hand here.”
Garkov’s right, but Aaron’s determined to play this all the way out. Poker is often as much about knowing your opponent as the cards, after all.
“You apparently believe that I hold some type of sway over Judge Nichols,” Aaron says. “But I’m sure you know that the last time I appeared before her, it didn’t exactly turn out well for my client.”
That was something of an understatement. Aaron’s last case before Faith Nichols was the one he had referenced to Joe Malone—the defense of Eric Matthews.
Matthews was the CEO of a small public company called Time Sensitive, which made low-cost watches. The company was acquired by a huge multinational, and Matthews’s golden parachute on the deal netted him nearly four million dollars. Although that should have been more than enough of a payday, Matthews surreptitiously acquired another million shares of Time Sensitive stock and stashed it in offshore accounts, knowing that once the acquisition was announced, the value of those shares would double. That bit of trading on material, nonpublic information netted Matthews another three million bucks, and a seven-count criminal indictment as the cherry on top. A jury found him guilty and Judge Nichols sentenced him to fourteen years, the longest insider-trading sentence in history.
“Yes, I know all about your prior dealings with Judge Nichols on Mr. Matthews’s behalf,” Garkov says. “But there’s a critical difference between my case and his.”
Garkov waits a beat before delivering his payoff line: “He didn’t know you were fucking the judge, and I do.”
Aaron can’t help but do a double take. It’s not that he’s surprised. He knew that this had to be Garkov’s ace in the hole from the moment Sabato mentioned Faith’s name, but the crude way Garkov’s come out with it is startling nonetheless.
It takes Aaron’s full effort to remain composed, trying to resist saying something imprudent. There’s no good comeback for that type of charge other than denial, and that’s not an option here.
“I hope we can now finally dispense with the posturing,” Garkov says quietly. “I’m not an expert in legal or judicial ethics, but I’m relatively certain that sexual relations between a judge and defense counsel is not something condoned by the bar association or the committee on judicial conduct . . . Now, I’m not sure if they’d send a lawyer to jail for lying to his client, but disbarment seems inevitable, and I’m also quite certain that poor Mr. Matthews will sue you for millions. And that’s to say nothing of the personal ramifications of such a disclosure. Your wife, Cynthia. Your two daughters, Lindsay and Samantha. They’re seniors at Brunswick Academy, aren’t they? It’s a terrible thing when a father loses the respect of his children.”
Aaron can feel a slow-burning rage taking hold, but he tells himself to keep it in check. It’s advice he often gives to clients—no one is at their best when they’re angry.
“How’d you find out?” he asks, largely because he thought he and Faith were very careful in that regard.
“How?” Garkov says with a smile. “It’s always been my humble opinion that ‘How?’ is not a very interesting question. I find out so many things from so many different sources that it’s difficult for me to keep track of the how. No, what you should be asking about, Aaron, is not how but why.”
“I think I already know the why. It seems to me that you’re less interested in securing my legal services than you are in finding someone to help you blackmail a federal judge,” Aaron says in a measured tone. “Which brings me to this question: if you have evidence that Judge Nichols and I engaged in inappropriate conduct, why do you need me at all? You already have Roy Sabato willing to do your bidding. Just get him to blackmail Judge Nichols.”
“I thought about that, and that’s still a very real possibility,” Garkov says, “but that would require bringing Roy into the loop. I don’t see why you’d want that. Nor do I, because I believe you will be far more persuasive with Judge Nichols. So, in this regard, our interests are aligned.”
“I’m sorry to have to burst your bubble, but my relationship with Judge Nichols is over. She doesn’t do me any favors these days. Just ask Eric Matthews.”
Garkov gives a small laugh. “I have confidence in you, Aaron. If you explain to her what’s at stake, then I’m sure she’ll see the light.”
It’s very rare that Aaron feels outmatched. Very rare, indeed. But Garkov has been a step ahead of him in every detail. If the poker analogy isn’t a perfect one, it’s apt enough—once the other side knows you’re bluffing, you need to fold.
7
Sam Rosenthal storms into Aaron’s office, looking nothing short of irate.
“No!” he shouts at Aaron. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You cannot do this. Not now!”
Rosenthal’s rage is like clockwork. Two minutes earlier, an e-mail went out to the members of the Committee on Committees, explaining that Nicolai Garkov was the newest client of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White.
Rosenthal limps toward Aaron’s desk. His expression is as grim as if someone has just died.
“Aaron, the man is a terrorist and a murderer. Worse than that, he’s going to kill our corporate practice. Do you want to see Donald Pierce running this place? Because if you do, congratulations, this is precisely the way to do it!”
Aaron reflects for a moment, playing out the conversation where he tells Rosenthal everything. He’s had this internal monologue a dozen times since his affair with Faith began and each time stopped short of letting the words come out.
He’s not sure why he hasn’t yet confided in Rosenthal. It’s not fear of professional repercussions, as he trusts Rosenthal with his life. Rather, he surmises it’s the same reason that his daughters don’t tell him of their own failures—the fear of disappointing the person who thinks the most highly of you. And so he sits there mute, his eyes glued to his shoes, feeling like a scared child.
The silence between them lasts long enough to become a third participant in the discussion. “Did you ever read The Old Man and the Sea?” Rosenthal finally says.
Aaron knows Rosenthal’s story is going to relate back to Garkov, but for the moment he’s just happy to be discussing something else. “No. I read The Sun Also Rises, if that counts,” Aaron says, managing a weak smile.
“Opposite lessons, I’m afraid. The point of The Old Man and the Sea was that sometimes having balls can be a problem, too. It’s about an old fisherman who’s down on his luck, and after months at sea, he captures this huge marlin. But he’s too weak to pull it into the boat, and so he sails home with it hanging over the side. As he does, sharks attack the marlin. The old fisherman is fighting them to exhaustion, but by the time he finally makes it to shore, there’s nothing left of the marlin but bones.”
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“What do you want me to take from this little lit class, Sam?”
“That sometimes it’s not readily apparent whether you have the fish or the fish has you.”
“So you think Garkov has me?”
“I can’t think of any other reason you’d take him on as a client.”
The lawyer in Aaron knows that speaking about certain things can only lead to trouble later, and the commission of a crime, like blackmailing a federal judge, is one of them. But lying to Rosenthal isn’t something Aaron’s ever done before, either.
“Sam . . . just give me a little time to work things out on this, okay? And believe me, I wouldn’t be taking on Nicolai Garkov unless the alternative was far worse than anything you’ve imagined Donald Pierce will do.”
“That hardly puts me at ease, Aaron.”
“It’s not supposed to, Sam. It’s supposed to convey that I’m trying to protect you. You and the firm. Plausible deniability.”
Rosenthal shakes his head in disagreement. “Aaron, I can’t make you tell me, but I can tell you that you never have to shield me from anything. If you have a problem, it’s my problem too. Whatever is going on, know that I’m with you. One hundred percent.”
Aaron doubts many things—not the least of which is his own judgment of late—but the loyalty of Sam Rosenthal is not one of them. At the same time, he doesn’t want to share what a colossal mistake he’s made if there’s any possibility he doesn’t have to.
“I’m just asking for a few days, Sam. If I can’t fix it by then, I’ll come to you. I promise.”
RACHEL LONDON LOOKS MUCH happier arriving at Aaron’s office than Sam Rosenthal was when he left ten minutes earlier.
“Thanks for saving the day with Joe Malone,” Rachel says. “Sometimes you make me feel a little like Lois Lane.”
“My pleasure. How’d it work out?”
